Temporary Mortality
by WarpedMirror
Summary: What if, when nations rose, their consciousness came first? What if it were up to them to find the perfect avatar so that they can care for their citizens? What if they had to steal a child's life to do it? Steal the life of a child they felt grow up—just to have a physical form.
1. Andoni

Even before he found his avatar, Spain was absolutely certain that he loved his people. As a nation, it was impossible not to; their purpose was to safeguard everyone within their borders from any threat. But it was incredibly difficult for Spain to imagine safeguarding anything without a corporeal body. Because of this, he spent every day waiting for the moment the perfect child revealed himself.

And when it finally came, he couldn't help but regret his decision.

Andoni truly was perfect. He was compassionate and had a deep love of his culture. He adored children and spent all the time he could playing with them. He was intelligent—but still naïve in many ways—with a strong sense of right and wrong. Above all, he wanted nothing more than to serve his country any way he could. The only downfall was that he had so much to lose: his parents, his cousin Naia, and his two-year-old brother Julen.

Spain decided to wait a little longer in hopes someone else would catch his attention.

But he knew no one would.

* * *

A year passed while Spain was waiting, and just as he had said, no one else had captured his attention.

Andoni and his cousin had turned eight. His mother had grown ill and died several months earlier. Julen, still a toddler, had contracted the same illness from her in that time and had been sick ever since.

Everyone thought it would kill him.

But Spain knew what this illness was—he had seen it in every corner of his land and seen how his people combated it—and he planned to cure the little one. He just needed to have a corporeal body first.

So when Andoni sought refuge from the nightmare of helplessly watching his brother die and sat outside his family's home, unable to even cry, Spain saw his chance.

Nations had the ability to copy the appearance of any of their citizens, though only before they had claimed their avatar. Spain chose to mimic Andoni himself, gathering his energy from the land to create a perfect, yet intangible duplicate.

Unfamiliar with the workings of human interaction, Spain could only muster a blunt, taciturn statement of: "I can help Julen."

Andoni looked up and promptly rubbed his eyes, startled by nation's sudden appearance and the fact that they were exactly identical. "Who- who are you?" he queried, voice trembling. The offer hadn't escaped his notice, though, and his eyes welled up with tears at the thought of someone curing his brother.

"The Kingdom of Spain." The boy's jaw dropped, but Spain continued anyway in a very straightforward manner. "I'm your country."

"But you- you can't be."

Spain knelt, extending his hand for the boy to touch. When Andoni did, his eyes went wide as he felt his hand and arm pass through without resistance. "I can," the nation replied. "And I can help him. I just need a physical form."

In seconds, Andoni seemed to understand. "Why me?"

"You're the only one. There's only ever one. You're everything I need to be to protect my people, so it must be you."

Andoni didn't reply, and to be honest, Spain hadn't expected him to. Admittedly, it was a little much to take in all at once. He probably should have thought this through in more detail earlier.

"As long as this country exists, so would you. Short of that, nothing on this Earth could ever take your life—no weapon, no disease, not even old age. The people would be like your children, and you would know them all by name because Spain is their protector. I need you so that I can take care of them. Without an avatar, I can do nothing. Without _you,_ Andoni, I'm useless." Spain stood and waited for the eight-year-old to recover himself. Quickly realizing that he had put too much pressure on the boy, he added, "But I won't force you to do anything. It's your choice."

Suddenly, a plaintive cry erupted from the house, causing Andoni to vault to his feet and dart inside. Naia was cradling Julen, trying vainly to keep his fever down with a soaked rag. The toddler thrashed weakly in her grasp and continued to bawl. Once Andoni rushed over and took him into his arms, his cries dissolved into soft whimpers.

"I'll take him outside," the older boy whispered, craning his neck down to kiss his brother's forehead. "It's cooler out there." Before he started back out, he ran his fingers through his cousin's hair and put his palm on her cheek for a few seconds. "Please get some sleep, Naia. You've been up for days; let me watch him."

"Okay." Naia could barely keep the tears from spilling over, and she knew that if she started crying, she would never be able to stop. "Okay," she breathed. "Just… tell me if you need help."

Andoni returned to the outside, but to his surprise, the nation had disappeared. "No," he gasped, sinking against the side of the house and pressing his face into Julen's hair. "No. You- you didn't let me answer. Spain, you didn't let me answer!" Finally, he couldn't hold back the sobs anymore and simply broke down.

Julen grabbed a fistful or two of his older brother's hair and did his best to give him a hug. "Adni…" he whimpered hoarsely, coughing. "Adni." His grip grew weaker with each passing moment.

"… Please, come back. I-I'll do it. I accept." Andoni's voice was almost imperceptible, but quickly rose in pitch and volume when he felt Julen fall limp. "Spain! Do you hear me?! I accept!" he screamed. He pulled Julen closer to himself. "What happened to protecting your people?! _Come back!"_

Spain materialized in front of him, his expression apologetic. "Andoni, I'm so sorry."

"You're lying! You said you could help him." Still, Andoni recognized how still and cold Julen felt against him. He recognized how they boy's chest no longer rose and fell in time with his own and how the erratic beating of his heart was no longer audible. He just didn't want to believe it.

"I didn't realize I came too late. You have to understand: I didn't know."

Andoni could only repeat himself in a bitter undertone and grit his teeth to prevent the sobs from escaping. He swiped angrily at Spain, who completely understood.

"Nations can't stop death," Spain insisted, doing his best to sound sincere. "I know I could have cured Julen; it's just that I waited too long."

Clutching his brother's body as if afraid it might vanish, Andoni choked out, "I can't. I-I can't t-tell them." With that, his expression slowly went blank. He mouthed something that the nation couldn't quite make out.

"What's wrong?" Spain blinked when he realized that the eight-year-old had yet again confirmed his acceptance. He sighed in relief. "Thank you, Andoni."

As Spain's form began to melt into his, the boy felt as if he had been struck by lightning—like he was going to burn alive. Then the energy faded and the voices filled his ears, thousands of them, most in Castilian, but others in Euskara, Catalan, Galician, and still other languages. He could understand them all. And then he could swear he felt the land itself and every building and being on it. Finally, he became aware of something missing. Something in his head than had been there not a minute ago.

He had a feeling it was important.

Spain looked down and yelped. He was holding the lifeless body of one of his citizens. The brunette boy—Julen, a voice in the back of his mind supplied—had hazel eyes, which the nation now carefully closed. Somehow, he knew that the toddler's family lived in the house behind him, so he stood and went inside to place the child in the empty bed.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a girl of no more than eight sleeping in the house's only other bed. He wasn't sure what compelled him to, but he slowly walked over to her and kissed her forehead. "It'll be fine, Naia," he murmured, somehow knowing that was her name.

* * *

As the years passed, Spain heard voices disappear only for new ones to take their place. He could hardly think straight with all the noise inside his head. One second he could be playing with some of his children; the next he could be keeling over with a massive headache. It really depended on how well he could block out the voices.

And perhaps some remote part of his brain found it strange that even with all the time that had gone by, he still looked exactly the same, but he never really dwelled on it because no one brought it up.

His green eyes were still a little too round, his cheeks were still a little too full, and the list went on and on. He might have commented on his hair at one point, but he now rather liked the way the dark curls framed his face.

He had met with the King and Queen—his bosses, he instinctively knew—some time ago and managed to convince them that he was indeed the Kingdom of Spain. They had been eager to have him stay with them, an offer which he had to politely decline. It wasn't that he didn't like them; he simply preferred to be among the common people.

His people were interesting, and they loved music. He would sometimes watch street performers for hours, while other times, he would invite one of the younger girls that lived nearby to dance with him for the sole reason that he couldn't keep still.

Spain was content to spend forever like this, but after several more decades, his King and Queen became obsessed with the idea of the new world that some travelers claimed was out there.

For some reason, he started growing quickly, progressing from a child into a teenager in a little under two or three years. His eyes weren't as round, his face was thinner, and his hair stopped curling nearly as much.

He was suddenly spending a lot more time with Belgium and the Netherlands, though none of them had set sail quite yet. Austria, who he recalled being unified with under the House of Hapsburg, seemed to randomly change his mind about giving him half of Italy. And just like that, his days among his commoners were over.

He had to move into an uncomfortably large house that he shared with Belgium, the Netherlands, and Southern Italy. Although it wasn't bad, he missed the days he spent wandering among his people.

Belgium was pretty, and she was nice, but she didn't want to dance with him.

The Netherlands didn't even want to speak to him.

Southern Italy—Romano, as it was drilled into Spain's head that the child preferred to be called—constantly said he was stupid and a jerk and threw things at him for trying to be friendly.

But Spain supposed it was better than living alone in a house that was much too big for only one person.

Of course, some days were easier than others.

Some days didn't have Romano breaking things while he was cleaning, waking him up close to dawn, and incessantly reminding him that he didn't want to be here. Some days didn't have the Netherlands slamming doors in his face for attempting to make conversation. Some days didn't have Belgium turn down his requests to dance with a pitying smile.

And some days didn't have him wake up with the nagging feeling that there was something he should have remembered.

And time passed far too quickly then, as well. He was overseas in the New World before he knew what was happening. He was conquering nations one after another in the name of his King, who insisted that they were doing so in the name of _Spain._

So the nation wondered: what did it mean—in the name of Spain?

Because it obviously didn't mean for the good of the common people.

* * *

Soon enough, the days of the conquerors were finished. Belgium and the Netherlands left; it was only Spain and Romano in the house now.

Spain would smile and offer the brunette nation tomatoes and pick him up so that he didn't wear himself out by walking, but Romano would kick and squirm and glare at him with bitter hazel eyes before muttering that the Spaniard only wanted his inheritance. Although Romano was now a teenager in terms of appearance, he had the temper and vocabulary of an adult—one that favored rather colorful terms, at that.

Something about raising Romano reminded Spain of that thing he should have remembered. Even despite the insults and fits, he genuinely enjoyed taking care of the Italian. It was oddly familiar and comforting, like he had helped raise a child before.

But he couldn't have because he would remember raising a child.

And he could only wonder why it hurt so much whenever Romano reminded him, with that same bitter glare, that they weren't brothers.

* * *

**Warped's Note: Andoni is Basque; that's why his name isn't Antonio. Despite this, sometime during the first few decades, Spain decided to change his human name so that it sounded more 'Spanish.'**

**And if you'd like, we'd be happy to continue this for other characters.**


	2. Gilbert

Teuton had never been particularly fond of humans. From his perspective, they could all be described in one word: boring. His knights were always on crusades—someone needed to tell them that they would never conquer the Old Prussians at this rate—but kept being beaten back by the Lithuanians and Poles. His priests didn't do much—did they even leave the churches?—but it was never anything special when they did. Everyone else was too busy with their everyday lives to do anything impressive or interesting.

Somehow, he knew his avatar had to be different—and more than slightly so. The child had to be noticeably unique and couldn't bore him.

But as almost a decade passed, Teuton began to think that his requirements were too strict.

Still, he didn't give up waiting, but whether it was out of patience or sheer stubbornness, he never was quite sure.

And eventually, his attention was brought to a little thief near the Southern border. Gilbert, as the boy had decided to call himself, certainly was different. He had no definite home or family; he wandered around wherever he wouldn't be caught. He never sought help or food from the church because no one would even consider aiding someone like him.

Many priests called him a demon and told everyone that he was dangerous. The common people threw stones at him—sometimes outright hitting him—simply for being an albino.

Despite being known as a thief, Gilbert was rarely able to keep what little he managed to steal. More often than not, an older child or an adult would take it from him and leave him lying in the dirt. Thus, he went hungry.

Teuton was quickly taken with the boy; Gilbert was one-of-a-kind and unlikely to ever bore him, exactly as the Order required. As a matter of fact, the only think he didn't like was that Gilbert wanted nothing more than to be ordinary.

Although common sense dictated that he take the time to be absolutely sure he had found his perfect avatar, Teuton was really sick of waiting.

* * *

He found the boy sitting at the edge of a puddle and glowering at his reflection with such utter loathing that even the nearby animals felt it. Gilbert had obviously tried to darken his hair with soot and dust, but it refused to turn anything other than a pale gray. Frustrated, he kicked dirt into the puddle to disturb its mirror-like surface.

Teuton had mimicked one of his priests, and he now looked the albino up and down. "Not everyone hates you," he said, peering over the boy's shoulder. "I don't."

Gilbert laughed as though he considered the statement absurd. "Then you must be stupid. I'm a demon," he spat, not looking up. Finally, he couldn't stare at his reflection any longer and turned around. A dark bruise marred the whitish skin under his right eye, his arms were covered in pink welts, and his upper lip was bloody. His red gaze was accusing, but he quickly averted his eyes.

"Although I may not be formally educated, I wouldn't say I'm stupid. And you're not a demon, Gilbert." Teuton was about to continue when the boy angrily cut him off, pointing to his hair and skin.

"Then why do I look like this?!" The undertone of desperation in his voice was hard to miss. That was the only question running through his head—why? It was so loud, even though it remained unspoken, that Teuton could almost swear he heard it.

_What could a child possibly do to deserve this?_ he wondered as a stab of pity stuck him.

Teuton merely shrugged. "I don't know, but I still like you," he replied insistently. "You're the only human who's ever interested me, so that makes you very special indeed."

"If you're not human, what are you?"

"I am the State of the Teutonic Order—Teutonic Knights or Teuton, if you prefer."

Gilbert wrinkled his nose, disbelieving. "Liar," he scoffed, slowly turning to face the Order.

"No, that's boring," Teuton admonished him, wagging a finger. The boy squinted in order to follow the movement. "I hate boring—don't be boring. Come on, tell me what Gilbert would say, not what common people would say."

A moment passed, then: "Prove it to me."

Smiling to himself, Teuton shifted forms into one of his knights. "Are you satisfied? If not, I could always mimic you; as I said, you're a very special child, and I like you very much."

"I don't understand you," Gilbert sighed, resting his chin in the palm of one hand.

"You're human—you're not supposed to." Teuton paused and appraised the albino again. He made an odd noise, much like the sound of someone clicking their tongue against the back of their teeth. "You want it to stop."

Confused, Gilbert simply stared at the Order for a minute or so. He opened his mouth to reply, but the words wouldn't come.

Teuton tilted his head to one side. "No…" he breathed. "That's wrong, isn't it? You don't want _it_ to stop. You want _them_ to stop. You're sick of people mistreating you for being different." He knelt and leaned in so that his face was centimeters from Gilbert's own. "Humans are ignorant and hypocritical, boy. Take it from someone who knows: no matter how dark you make your hair or how well you hide your eyes, they will never treat you normally."

Gilbert took a sharp breath, his eyes watering. "Why are you telling me this?" he whispered. He glanced backwards at his reflection in the puddle—a permanent reminder of the years of mistreatment and one of the few things he absolutely hated.

"Because you need to know," Teuton replied, staring intently at the boy. "And if you're willing, I can make them stop for good."

Barely loud enough to be heard, Gilbert interrupted, "No, you can't." With that, he got to his feet and gradually backed away. Then, he turned and ran.

Teuton said nothing and let him go.

Several days later, Gilbert was caught outside of a baker's shop with a piece of stale bread. The knight that had apprehended him was unwilling to listen when the boy insisted that he hadn't stolen it, citing that demons were always liars.

Gilbert ripped his arm free, making a break for the escape offered by a nearby alley. Unfortunately, the knight was faster and kicked him to the ground. The albino gasped, clutching his ribs. "I swear I didn't steal it," he hissed through the pain, his eyes squeezed shut. "He was throwing it out."

"Do you think I'm stupid, demon?" the knight demanded. When Gilbert didn't reply, he kicked him again, sending the boy skidding a meter or two in the dirt.

"Stop it! Please, stop," Gilbert sobbed as he brought his arms up to shield his face. The tears stung his cheeks as they fell, and suddenly he remembered the offer he had been given not long ago. "Teuton, make him stop." He was helpless—so completely, totally helpless, unable to even move. But what made this time different was that now he knew how it felt to be treated like he actually mattered, and he never wanted to lose that feeling. "Please, Teuton, make him stop," he repeated. His voice broke. "I don't care about anything else, just make him stop."

And then the knight backed off.

"What gives you the right to attack my child?" The new voice was tight, angry.

"What gives you the right to stand in my way?"

"'Truly, I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.' … And you call yourself a knight of God. Now leave my child be and _go."_ There was the sound of retreating footsteps. Finally, Teuton continued, "Gilbert, it's alright. I'm here."

Gilbert slowly lowered his arms, finding that Teuton had mimicked the priest again. He got to his knees. "You said you could make them stop for good." When Teuton nodded, the boy added, "I really don't care anymore; just do it."

"Alright," Teuton said softly. "But promise me you will never forget that you are not a demon." Gilbert replied that he wouldn't forget, and Teuton let his form dissolve, pouring his energy into the boy.

A few minutes later, Teuton stood and examined his dirty hands. He gingerly touched the bruise on his cheek, wincing. "Huh," he murmured.

Now how did that happen?

* * *

At the next election of his Grand Master, Teuton made his existence known. Although they didn't want to believe it, the council eventually had to accept that Teuton was indeed their Order. One knight in particular, after everything had been sorted out, kept apologizing to him and insisting that he hadn't known who Teuton was. It was all very annoying.

The next few decades were somewhat monotonous, but he did manage to conquer the Livonian Knights. For some reason, though, he couldn't strike Livonia once the younger Order had been knocked to the ground, unable to do anything but feebly cover his head.

Teuton had just stared at Livonia, choking on the idea of hurting him again when he was so helpless—so utterly at his mercy.

And it wasn't just with Livonia; anytime Teuton conquered an Order or land, he would fight until his opponent was on the ground. He could never go any further than that.

It troubled him sometimes.

Then the Old Prussians fell, and everything changed.

Livonia and Hungary grew closer to him. Livonia became his protectorate; Hungary, his ally. They fought together in public and fought each other in private, but they were still friends.

But Lithuania-Poland and other nations soon took Livonia's land, leaving only Latvia and Estonia in his place.

Hungary thought it was amusing when he brought up Teuton's hair and eyes, as the Order would pull his hood up and duck his head without knowing exactly why he did it. But he did know that it stung whenever he remembered how different he looked.

It wasn't funny, he'd tell Hungary, his arms up to protect his face from blows that never came. It wasn't his fault he was albino.

And when Hungary turned out to be a girl, Teuton couldn't help but feel betrayed. His one friend had been pretending to be something she wasn't. No matter how often he reminded himself that she hadn't known—that she had truly believed she was a boy—the hurt feeling in his chest wouldn't go away.

Still, he moved on and conquered more land. He'd shout at his enemies to kneel before him and praise him and beg him for mercy, but it would always end with him asking in a quiet, trembling voice if he mattered.

No one ever replied, and they didn't have to. The look in their eyes was answer enough.

* * *

Prussia. After centuries as Teuton, the world decided that it would rather have _Prussia._ It would rather force him to his knees and put him under Polish rule than let him stay Teuton. It would rather strip him of his empire and make him a duchy than let him keep his Order. The world was sick and cruel, and he wondered why this didn't surprise him.

So Prussia was complacent and waited for his freedom.

In the meantime, he watched the Holy Roman Empire grow up without him.

When he united with Brandenburg, he formally met Hungary's new ally, Austria. Of course, he had heard of the nation, but he never really found him all that interesting. Austria was sheltered, rich, and owned half of Italy. He was an aristocrat and could afford to buy pretty dresses for Hungary, but he was also very frugal, which irritated Prussia. What was the point of hoarding money if you never planned to use it?

Needless to say, they didn't get along. They argued and called each other names and vied for Hungary's attention. They bickered so much that Prussia honestly couldn't remember most of it.

But he would never forget the day he almost went too far. Austria had been exceptionally irate and called him 'that devil.' Prussia didn't know why, but he had grabbed the aristocrat by the collar, slamming him into the wall. He had tried to say that he wasn't a devil, but the word came out as 'demon' instead.

Since then, he tried to ignore any insults thrown his way, laughing them off with an air of smug self-assurance. It worked for the most part, but the words devil and demon always set him off.

He never understood why he would tug his cap down tighter or pull up his hood whenever someone mentioned his hair, or why he could only stare in stunned silence when a child innocently mistook him for a monster.

And it always troubled him whenever he locked himself in his room with a bottle of black hair dye and a pair of colored contacts.

* * *

**Mirror's Note: Albinos almost always have very poor vision; that's why Gilbert had to squint to follow Teuton's wagging finger. This was essentially fixed when the Order took over, but even today, Prussia still has slight vision problems.**

**And it seems my co-author forgot the most important explanation of all last chapter, so I will give it now. Thanks to lizkatrinac for reminding us.**

**When a nation claims their avatar—that is, they take over—it is essentially a reset button. All specific details of past events are wiped out, leaving the new country with only the memory of who they are and a general idea of who their people are, just enough to survive. Ideally, this is meant to encourage young nations to seek out their perfect avatar before their first decade is over. This is also why it has to be a child. Their avatar has to have been born in the country. If a nation waits too long, they risk wiping out their memories of important events and will thus choose not to claim a corporeal body. **


	3. Natalya

Although it was a perfectly natural feeling, Belarus was more than a little reluctant to admit that she cared for her children. It just didn't seem right to her. In her opinion, she needed to have a better reason for loving them than simply that she was their nation. Still, she took care of them, watched over them, and waited for the right reason.

And it wasn't long before a little girl captured her attention.

Natalya, in her infinite, six-year-old wisdom, was absolutely certain that she was going to marry her best friend when they were older. Of course, Ruslan had promised he would marry her and planned to do exactly that, but who could really know for sure?

Plans could change. Friendships could be broken.

Families could move away.

Belarus felt sorry for the girl. Her parents had decided that telling her would be too stressful, instead electing to pretend as though Ruslan had never existed, when as a matter of fact, he had just moved to Ukraine.

This wasn't Natalya's only problem. And that was the trouble with humans, Belarus thought. They always had so many problems.

Yet… she felt strangely drawn to Natalya.

Perhaps it was her innocence. Belarus adored innocent things; it broke her as-yet-metaphorical heart to see the world systematically beat the childish naivety out of them as they grew. Indeed, Natalya was so very innocent, but here she was, dealing with things the majority of adults couldn't even begin to imagine.

A lost childhood love, voices that only she could hear: these were the things that tormented this little girl.

Belarus simply watched as Natalya confided in her parents about the voices—ghosts, she called them—and explained how they told her over and over that Ruslan was leaving, that she would never marry him or see him again because he had abandoned her. And poor Natalya was left doubting her own thoughts when her parents simply said that they didn't know who Ruslan was. Still, she remained utterly convinced that the boy was not one of her ghosts; she had seen him, after all.

But when her parents—out of fear for both their daughter and themselves—finally snapped and shut her up in a cold, dim room in the back of their house where no one could hear her, Belarus knew she had to do _something._

What that something could possibly be, though, the nation had no idea.

* * *

The heartbroken, wordless shrieks were the first things that struck Belarus when she materialized in front of the child, who was curled up in a little ball in the corner of the damp room. Natalya had clamped her hands over her ears, but even that could not block out the cruel remarks from her ghosts. She was shaking, tears streaming down her cheeks and staining her dress.

When she finally went silent, Belarus had long since settled her mimicked form on a chair that had been propped against the door and secured there by a heavy piece of timber.

The nation wasn't sure whether it was meant to keep Natalya in or everyone else out.

Natalya's breaths were sharp, staggered, and they were interrupted by little hiccups every so often. After a few minutes, she opened her eyes, but she barely blinked when she noticed Belarus. Instead, she got to her feet, still hiccupping, and walked over to the door. She tentatively stretched out her hand, gasping when it touched the smooth back of the chair. "You're not a ghost," she whispered matter-of-factly.

"And how are you so certain, little one?" Belarus whispered back.

"I can see you. You can't see ghosts—only hear them." Natalya's lower lip trembled, and her eyes welled up with tears again. "You can't see ghosts." The murmur was barely audible, caught in the back of the child's throat. "Ruslan is real. I saw him." Her voice rose to a piercing wail. "I saw him! Stop it; he's coming back! _Stop laughing at me!"_

She fell to the floor, clutching her head in a desperate bid to silence the voices.

"You're right." Belarus wished she had a tangible form. Then she could comfort the girl the right way rather than offer meaningless words that would never change anything. "He is real."

Natalya could only whimper pathetically as another onslaught of taunts filled her ears. Some of the ghosts just laughed, while others hissed repeatedly that Ruslan had never existed or that she was stupid for honestly believing he would marry her. They had been foolish children, the ghosts argued; such a rash promise would never be kept through so many years.

Ruslan would fall in love with someone else and leave her forever…

If he had ever been real at all.

Belarus's child was a shattered mess, and as a nation, it was her job to fix it. She got up from the chair and crouched in front of the girl. "Ruslan is real. I promise you. As Belarus, Natalya, I promise you: he's real."

Sobbing, Natalya didn't seem to hear her. The ghosts were too loud, too cruel, too convincing. Another devastated scream tore from her lips, this one in the form of a single word: _"Stop!"_ She continued screaming the plea, her voice growing more broken and raw with each breath.

Belarus waited. She waited for hours, until Natalya's throat was sore and she was unable to cry any longer. The nation made little shushing noises, like she had heard so many mothers do all across her land. Gradually, Natalya calmed. Belarus remained in a crouch, ever patient while the child uncurled to stare at her—the strange, intangible being that wasn't a ghost.

"He- he's coming back. He's g-going to ma-marry me; h-he promised."

"Of course he's coming back." Lies. Blatant, shameless lies. But what was wrong with lying if it stopped Natalya's tears?

"Did you see him, too?" When Belarus nodded, Natalya reached out to touch her again, not reacting as her hand phased through. "You can tell Mama, then," she hiccupped. "You can tell Mama Ruslan's real." Belarus said nothing, only looking away. "Why not?!"

"She wouldn't listen to me—no one would listen to me."

They fell into a somewhat companionable silence.

Belarus just didn't understand. Why was Natalya so _interesting_ to her? It couldn't have been her innocence; that had been damaged when Ruslan left. So why did Belarus want so desperately to comfort her, to hold her and protect her from everything in the world? Why did she suddenly feel the need for a corporeal body when she had never wanted one before? What made this little girl so special, that Belarus would confine herself to a physical form, a child's form-

And in an instant, everything fell into place. Natalya—fragile, shattered Natalya—was the one thing the nation truly needed: a reason to love her people.

It was because the girl was broken that Belarus wanted to protect her. A little girl should not have gone through so much, through more than most adults ever would. Belarus should have been able to stop this. She should have watched over Natalya better, should have never let her doubt that Ruslan was real.

This was never going to happen again. She wouldn't allow it.

"Do you love Ruslan?"

Natalya looked up, sniffling. After a moment's hesitation, she bit her bottom lip and nodded. Of course she loved him—loved him with all the childish innocence she had left.

"Listen to me, because I know he loves you too." More lies. Belarus hoped she didn't make a habit out of this. "I can't do anything to bring him back to you, but I can promise that the ghosts are wrong: he would have kept his promise and married you if he could. The only thing I can really do is ask you to help me. Help me make sure no one in this nation ever feels like you do, because it's not right."

"What are you asking?" Natalya queried. Her voice was still soft and slightly raspy.

Belarus calmly explained who she was and offered her assurance that if the girl said yes, she would no longer be tormented by the ghosts. This was one thing she couldn't guarantee was a lie.

Very quietly, filled with pain and unshed tears, the acceptance came.

The nation dissolved her mimicked form, contemplating what to do next, and several minutes later, it at last dawned on her. She tried to imagine herself mimicking Natalya and focused on generating the illusion in the exact same position and exact same place as the girl. Their screams melted together as their forms fused.

Finally, Belarus pushed herself up onto her hands and knees, blinking against the bleary feeling in the back of her mind. She felt incomplete, like there was an important name she had forgotten.

Putting her hands up to shield herself from the voices that suddenly threatened to deafen her, she decided to worry about the forgotten name later.

Until then, she had to get out of this room.

* * *

It wasn't all that hard to convince her leaders that she was their nation. The trouble came in explaining her occasional fits or why she sometimes talked to people that weren't there.

She never understood why the whispers told her that someone had left her, at least until she met Russia. For some reason, she thought that his name sounded a lot like the one she had forgotten, so the voices—ghosts, she had decided one day—must have been talking about him the entire time. How they knew of him when she had yet to meet the other nation, she never was sure.

The ghosts were also adamant that he was going to marry someone else when he got older, but Belarus couldn't begin to understand the tightness in her chest when she contemplated this. They called her a silly child and told her that he had never existed, to which she would scream that he was right in front of her; he had to be real. This only made Russia avoid her, leading him to hide behind Ukraine whenever she approached.

And then she came under the rule of Lithuania, who genuinely meant well and took good care of her but had no idea why she resented him so much. It seemed to her mind that he was the reason for the ghosts: he had taken her away, though admittedly, it didn't explain why the ghosts had said that _Russia_ left _her._

As more and more years passed, Belarus grew numb to the changes around her. She was only half-aware when Lithuania united with Poland under the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, dragging her along. She hardly noticed when she was spoken to, often neglecting to respond entirely. The Lithuanian language she was forced to learn felt heavy and clumsy on her tongue, but then again, so did Belarusian and Russian. She had no energy to do any of the household chores delegated to her by Poland, but she couldn't sleep either.

Finally, she was reunited with Russia and Ukraine, and the ghosts came back in force. They mostly laughed at her now, taunting that he would never marry her because she was a stupid little girl with no self-control. Belarus tried to prove them wrong, but each attempt to do so ended more and more disastrously, culminating in her begging Russia to marry her, knife in hand.

No matter how much time passed, she never recalled that name. Eventually, the difference between it and Russia blurred to the point that they became the same thing. Any thoughts of the forgotten person ultimately led her to the older nation.

Whenever Ukraine tried to get her attention, Belarus would burst out screaming that of course Russia existed; she had seen him, so he must have existed. And terrified, Ukraine would always run away with tears in her eyes.

The ghosts became so loud that Belarus was unable to distinguish between them and other people. A ghost's whisper that he had abandoned her became Ukraine's cheerful good morning as she woke Belarus up. Another's mocking laughter at her naïvety became Russia's giggles as he played in the snow. One faded into the other, so muddled in Belarus's mind that she was never sure which was which.

* * *

Centuries went by in a daze, and before Belarus knew it, she was independent. Her house was hers and hers alone for the first time in what felt like forever. The TVs never got a strong signal, but that was okay because she would just sit and stare at it for hours on end, imagining that she could see vaguely familiar faces in the white noise.

She grew convinced that someone was going behind her and locking the doors so she couldn't escape to find Russia.

Above everything, it was the silence that bothered her the most. In the silence, the ghosts could torture her all the more, their voices echoing off the walls as they told her that she would never marry him. In the silence, they sounded so much more convincing—smoother and richer than silk. In the silence, there was nothing to drown them out except her screams.

She didn't understand why they continued to tell her the same things over and over again. She had left Russia, not the other way around. She knew that she was a stupid child; they told her often enough. She knew that Russia wouldn't marry her because they called themselves siblings. She knew that Russia was real, and she knew that everyone else had confirmed as much when they talked about him.

She didn't understand the point of the ghosts telling her everything she already knew and nothing she didn't. She didn't understand the aching in her chest that came with every reminder that he didn't love her the same way she loved him. She didn't understand why Russia refused to marry her when something in the back of her mind knew he said that he would.

And she didn't understand why some nights found her tearing at his door and screaming at him for breaking a promise he never made.

* * *

**Mirror's Note: Natalya is schizophrenic; those aren't ghosts, they're hallucinations. If her parents hadn't hidden her away, she would have been locked in an asylum at best and killed at worst.**

**To Fiare: Warped and I absolutely love your analysis. We never thought about the title as referring to the nations as well—only the children. But the way you put it, it really does make sense that it refers to both. **

**And to lizkatrinac: Yes and no. While it's true that nations cannot remember their avatar's situation, they don't exactly suffer from their emotions. It's more along the lines of an echo of the child's life—like muscle memory or a nervous habit that they can't quite recall the reason for.**

**Warped's Note: For future reference, you're more than welcome give us ideas for other characters. The only ones we have definite plans for right now are America, England, France, Canada, Iceland, South Italy, Switzerland, Austria, Germany, and the Holy Roman Empire. **

**Also, if you have any questions about this, by all means, we would be thrilled to answer them, so ask anything.**


End file.
